Poking the Bear
by GrayWolf84
Summary: Dean accidentally pokes the bear, with unexpected results. Set between 8.20 Pac-Man Fever and 8.21 The Great Escapist. Rated T for language. No slash, no AU, no OFC. Canon.


**Author's Note: **Hello! I thought I'd throw my hat in the SPN ring with this short story - hopefully a twist on the S8 Trials HC fics. Basically, I was having a bad weekend, so I'm taking it out on Sam. Poor Sam. I found it entertaining, so I thought you might too. Schmoopy brotherliness.

This is actually my second SPN fic, but my first one published, since my first one is lengthy and needs more work and editing. This one, for better or for worse, is short and sweet, and unbeta'ed, so any errors, false assumptions, and other problems are my own. (Well, they're always my own, but you know what I mean). If it seems out of character - stick with it, there's a reason. :)

**Spoilers: **Generally the latter half of Season 8. Set vaguely between 8.20 Pac-Man Fever and 8.21 Great Escapist

**Rating: **T for strong language.

* * *

**Poking the Bear**

It was a little after 9am when Dean wandered down the dormitory hall in search of his brother. Sam was usually an early riser, even as the two Trials he'd completed continued to take their toll on him, but today the elder brother had yet to see hide nor hair of the younger. There was no sign he'd been anywhere near the kitchen for breakfast or coffee, but that was no surprise – Sam was barely touching his food lately, and then only when Dean pushed. He'd checked the library and the storage rooms, thinking Sam might be digging into some new branch of research, but no dice. That left only one likely place.

The door to the bedroom Sam had claimed as his own was slightly ajar, but no light or movement inside betrayed the younger man's presence. Cautiously, Dean pushed the door open a little farther, letting a sliver of hallway light spill in on the bed.

Ah – mystery solved.

Sam was still in bed, curled on his side with his back towards the door, sheets covering his boxers and the lower half of his gray t-shirt. Dean couldn't tell if he was still asleep or not; in typical big-brother fashion, he grinned and decided it didn't matter. He pushed the door open the rest of the way, flooding the room with light, and rapped his knuckles loudly on the inner wall.

"Wakey wakey, Sammy! Time to rise and shine!" he announced cheerily. When Sam didn't move, he added: "You gonna sleep all day, Princess?"

"Fuck off, Dean." Sam didn't sound like he'd been sleeping, and certainly didn't sound amused. "Leave me alone."

Dean's eyebrows shot sky-high. For as long as Sammy-duty had been part of his morning routine – in other words, nearly his entire life – he could count on one hand the number of times Sam had answered a morning wake-up call with 'fuck off'. Usually there was a lot of alcohol involved the night before.

"Jeez, someone woke up on the bitchy side of the bed today!"

That earned him a response, though not one that he expected.

"Oh, for Christ's sake! I'm up!" Sam snarled, shoving aside the sheets and throwing himself out of the bed fast enough that, for a moment, Dean thought he was going to face-plant himself on the floor. Sam found his footing quickly enough, though, fixed his older brother with a black glare, and proceeded to storm out of the bedroom, knocking Dean's shoulder hard with his own as he shoved his way past into the hallway. Dean watched, thoroughly stunned, as his brother stomped down the hall barefoot towards the bathrooms. It took him a moment to collect himself and follow.

"Hang on a minute, Sam!" he called, losing his jovial mood and edging towards irritation. The irritation lasted only long enough for him to reach the closed bathroom door and hear the exceptionally unpleasant sound of retching within. Dean reached for the doorknob, found it unlocked, and opened the door to the painful sight of his big-little brother curled over the toilet bowl hurling his guts out, one arm braced against the back of the bowl, the other clutching his stomach.

Dean grimaced sympathetically. "Sam? You okay?"

Panting to catch his breath in between heaves, Sam hung his head, eyes shut. "Get out."

Dean watched as he swallowed hard and forced back another spasm from his stomach, and Dean's stomach rolled too. He could see the frightening tinge of blood mixed in with the effluvium in the bowl – not 'dying of internal bleeding' blood, but 'just another day post- Second Trial' blood.

When Dean didn't move, Sam glared up at him again. "I'm not five, Dean. I've got this. Get out." His glare blackened when his older brother hesitated. When Dean finally stepped back out of the doorway, Sam swatted the door shut hard, scant inches from Dean's nose.

But Dean didn't go far. Full-on worried now, he slid to the floor and sat beside the door, listening as Sam continued to retch, and wracking his brain for anything, _anything_ he could do to help his little brother.

After a little while, the miserable sounds stopped, followed by the flush of the toilet, the water in the sink running, and the muted swish of brushing teeth. Dean was only halfway to his feet when Sam yanked the door open, scowled to see him waiting there, and stomped back around the corner to his room. Dean followed him as far as the doorway and watched as Sam yanked open drawers and closet doors, collecting a clean set of clothes to wear. He seemed to be as angry with his furniture as he apparently was with Dean.

"I didn't know you weren't feeling good," Dean began, not quite apologizing.

Sam ignored him, features fixed with dark aggravation. Clothes gathered, he stalked out of the room again. Dean was quick to get out of his way this time, and watched, dismayed, as he retreated into the bathroom a second time without a word. The older man shook his head. It was a rare day when Sammy was this pissed off about anything – the best thing he could do just now was probably give him his space. As the shower turned on down the hall, Dean headed towards the kitchen, wondering if they had anything in the cupboards that the younger man could keep down.

* * *

Sam's mood had improved by the time he was showered and dressed, if the transition from 'if looks could kill' to 'sullen grouch' could be called improvement. He threw himself into a chair at the far end of the conference table, where the previous night's pile of folders, case files, and notepads waited. He reached for one at random and flicked it open, scowling down at the papers inside as though they too had caused him grievous offense. Dean looked on from the open doorway to the entrance hall, assessing carefully. He had no idea how late Sam had been up reading through those same case files the night before, or if he'd really gotten any sleep at all. With no direction on the third trial yet from Kevin, Sam seemed bound and determined to learn whatever he could for himself from the Men of Letters' archives on all things demon-related.

"Think you can keep anything down? I can make some toast," Dean offered neutrally, knowing he was inviting another blowup.

His brother didn't look up. "No," was his entire answer, as he tossed aside the first case file haphazardly and picked up a second.

Dean frowned. Sam was never careless with the files. He took a breath and let it out silently. "Alright, well, I'm gonna make a run for some grub. You want anything?"

Sam's scowl only deepened, accompanied by a tight jump in his jaw, and he said nothing, studying the page with exaggerated concentration. With his right hand on the file pages, his left hand went up to rub at his temple as he tried to hide a grimace. Then a cough tickled his throat, becoming stronger until he reached for the ever-present box of tissues on the table to spit and wipe his mouth. Once the tissue was tossed, his hand went back to his temple.

Dean nodded to himself. "Alright, I'm out. Call if you think of anything."

There was no acknowledgement from Sam, nor did he expect any at this point. He headed for the staircase, mentally compiling his checklist as he went.

As soon as the door was shut, Sam dropped the paper he hadn't been reading and pressed both hands to his head, elbows on the table, and let his shoulders slump wearily. He cast a hopeful look at his cell phone, still sitting there from the night before, and slumped still further when he saw there were no missed calls from Kevin. Then he picked up the paper again and forced his eyes to focus.

* * *

Sam hadn't moved from the chair when Dean returned three hours later, although the two piles of folders had shifted considerably from 'Worth Checking Out' to 'Useless'. The elder Winchester made several trips back and forth from the Impala before locking the entrance and settling into the kitchen to unload the fruits of his efforts. Twenty minutes later, he stepped confidently into the library and strode over to the table across from Sam, who studiously ignored him as he set down a bottle of water in an open spot.

"So, I gave Charlie a call," Dean explained without preamble, "and through some complicated nerd-hackery mumbo-jumbo, she got into the computer systems of a pharmacy across town and got you a couple of prescriptions - _this_ for nausea," he set one orange bottle down on top of Sam's current case folder, "and _this_ for your headache," he finished, setting a second bottle down.

Sam's gaze shifted from the page in his hand to the prescription bottles, his expression inscrutable, even to Dean. Green eyes watched carefully for a response, waiting silently. To his great surprise, his little brother closed his eyes tightly, and his expression fell. An internal pain seeped through the cracks in his features.

"I'm not weak, Dean. I can do this," he said, soft and hard and tired and strong all at once.

Dean's own features softened a little. So _that_ was what this was all about. "I know you can, man. But you're not on your own. I can help."

Sam opened his eyes, looking over the prescriptions with something like longing. Slowly, he set the paper down and reached first for one, then the other, shaking out one pill each. He looked dubiously at the water bottle for a moment before reaching for that too, uncapping it and taking the pills with a careful swallow. He closed his eyes, and Dean held his breath for a minute, willing the medication to stay down. When Sam opened his eyes again and screwed the cap back on the bottle, Dean let out a soft relieved breath.

"Listen, why don't you go back to bed? That crap will still be there later," he suggested, taking another risk after his first win.

There was little heat behind the frown Sam aimed at him now. "I'm fine, Dean." He reached for the paper again, blinking for a moment when he wasn't sure which one he had just set down. He picked one at random, Dean thought, which just happened to be the right one.

"Hey, at least go sit in one of those big leather chairs, huh? They've gotta be way better for your back than sitting hunched over this table," Dean reasoned.

Sam shot him a more potent glare now and said nothing, but after a moment he shoved himself out of his chair, grabbed a couple of unread files, and trudged over to one of the wing-backed stuffed leather chairs that sat along the border of the library, tucked between shelves and handy reference tables. He plunked himself down and set the files on the table nearby, opened his current file in his lap, and shot his older brother a look that clearly said _"Happy?"._ Dean gave him just enough of a smirk to answer _"Yes."_ without sparking a new eruption, then disappeared back towards the dormitory hallway without a word.

Thirty minutes later, he quietly returned to the conference room, peering in to see his little brother fast asleep in the comfortable leather chair, half the pages from the file folder slid to the floor. Dean bent down to carefully pick up the fallen pages and gently removed the remainder from Sam's lax hands, setting them aside for later. Then he picked up the blanket he'd brought from Sam's room and spread it over his brother, deftly tucking the upper edge behind his shoulders to keep it from falling off. Hazel eyes flickered briefly and closed again with a sigh. Dean smiled at his handiwork and stepped back, shutting off lights as he went, to let Sammy rest.

* * *

It was early evening when Dean glanced up from the stove to see Sam padding into the kitchen, licking his lips and rubbing one hand over his face. He'd already smoothed out the worst of his rumpled hair. He blinked sleepily, sitting down at the kitchen table to watch Dean.

"It lives!" the older man commented affably, hoping for a more sociable response this time.

"Mmmnnmm. Sort of," Sam grumbled, rubbing his face again and looking up to squint at the stove. "What are you making?" He'd long since accepted Dean's newfound culinary skills, which seemed to extend considerably beyond burgers and eggs, but not quite so far as homemade pie.

"Beef stroganoff," Dean reported proudly, stirring one pot while eyeing boiling water in a second. "Thought it might put a little hair on your chest. Smells good, eh?"

Sam yawned. "I'll take your word for it." Dean's covert prescriptions had helped considerably, but he still didn't think he could eat much of anything yet.

The chef eyes his little brother carefully. "There's Gatorade in the fridge if you want some. Probably a little dehydrated," he hazarded a guess.

Sam nodded, then slowly stood and stepped over to open the refrigerator door. He blinked, eyebrows raised, at the sight inside. An entire shelf in the middle of the fridge was filled with bottled sports drinks in every color and flavor, and even a few different brands. He raised questioning eyes to his older brother.

"What? I didn't know what kind you wanted," Dean shrugged.

Sam returned his gaze to the fridge and poked a couple of bottles aside before finding one that seemed palatable. He grabbed it and returned to his seat at the table, then opened the bottle and took a cautious sip. His stomach didn't disagree, but nor did it wholeheartedly welcome the intrusion. He waited a few minutes before taking another sip, watching Dean retrieve a colander from a cabinet, set it in the sink, and pour the boiling pot of water – egg noodles, apparently – into the strainer. Butter went into the empty pot, followed by the drained noodles, and Dean stirred again. Then he cast a careful glance at Sam.

"Think you can eat something?" he asked lightly, smiling a little, but there was worry behind his eyes.

"Of your cooking? Might as well call an ambulance now," Sam groused, but Dean took the teasing for what it was. He pulled out some dishes and silverware and served up two portions – an extra helping for himself, a disturbingly small bowl for Sam, with only the tiniest scrap of sauce and beef on one side. Sam took the little bowl gratefully, though his five-year-old self would have heartily protested the child-sized serving. With all the speed of a snail, he barely choked it all down, chewing slowly and pausing often to make sure it wasn't going to make a sudden reappearance. It was no slight to Dean's cooking, the elder brother knew – these damned Trials were just tearing Sam up inside. Dean had the leftovers cleaned up and pans left to soak well before Sam set his fork down for the last time.

"Listen, Dean… I'm sorry about earlier. I was just…" Sam trailed off, trying to find some way to explain his frustration and pain, and how Dean had made such a convenient target that morning. He needn't have bothered.

"Don't worry about it, Sammy," Dean assured him, wiping his hands off on a dish towel. "I know how you get when you haven't had your nap." He only grinned at Sam's scowl, glad to be back on familiar footing with his little brother.

Then the grin faded. "Seriously, though – I don't think you're weak, Sam." Damn those puppy-dog eyes looking up at him for reassurance. "You're one of the strongest guys I've ever known, right up there with Dad, and Bobby. The hits we've taken – they would have killed most people a dozen times over. Shut up," he added, at Sam's pointed look. "It's true. So don't beat yourself up even more 'cause you're having a shitty day. I get it."

Sam frowned thoughtfully, considering his words for a moment before looking up to reply.

"You wanna hug, now?" he asked, straight-faced and serious.

Dean gaped for just an instant before shoving Sam's shoulder. "Shaddup, bitch." Then he stalked out of the room.

Sam grinned, reaching for the Gatorade and taking another sip. He was feeling better already.

* * *

At Dean's insistence, the rest of the night was spent in Sam's room, away from research and case files and all things demon-related. Instead, they watched _Star Wars_ on Sam's laptop, and Sam grinned when, as always, Dean bitched about the Special Edition CG changes to the original films and complained that George Lucas wouldn't release the originals on DVD. Han Solo was cheered and Princess Leia was whistled at, and the usual snarks and quips and bickering trailed a ribbon of commentary throughout the movie and into the next.

They were partway through _Empire_, and three bottles of Gatorade down, when Sam fell quiet. Dean risked a sidelong glance to see eyelids drooping, then snapping back open again. Dean said nothing, but turned the volume down a little, and halted his own commentary. _That_ was why they were in Sam's room – so Dean didn't have to haul his unfairly huge little brother halfway across the bunker when he crashed. By the time Boba Fett took off with Han encased in carbonite, Sam was sleeping soundly. Dean was quietly putting the laptop away when a bout of coughing woke the younger man, leaving him reaching for the tissues again to wipe up the blood.

"Easy, Sammy." Dean kept one hand on his shoulder through the coughing fit, holding him steady, then piled pillows behind his back so he could sleep almost sitting up, which eased his breathing. A blanket pulled up across his chest soon followed, and Sam lifted drowsy hazel eyes up to meet Dean's deep green.

"Need anything else, Princess?"

"Jerk," Sam murmured, letting his eyes slide shut again. He smiled a little when Dean ruffled his hair, and faded out before the lamp light was shut off and the bedroom door closed.

**The End**


End file.
